


The Philanthropist's New Clothes

by Kaleran



Category: Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: Declarations Of Love, Frottage, Javert has a Thing for Valjean's thighs, M/M, Service Top Javert, Strength Kink, Valjean has a small dick, and that's okay, chubby Valjean, how did I nearly forget that, probably, this is just really soft and gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:07:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24081793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaleran/pseuds/Kaleran
Summary: “You do not need a tailor, Valjean,” Javert says with a huff of silent laughter at the thought.Valjean is certainly healthier than before; a far cry from that withered being Javert had to shout into motion nearly every day. His cheeks are no longer gaunt, but full, his hands no longer frail-looking and skeletal, but strong and powerful even at his advanced age, his chest just as broad as it has always been. Yet that is not quite right either. Now that Javert is looking, the buttons on Valjean’s waistcoat are somewhat more snug than he would think comfortable, the fastening of his trousers likewise strained. Javert blinks, entirely blindsided to see that Valjean has not only gained back all that weight he lost pursuing nonsense, but more besides. It looks well on him, unlike other men Javert has seen where it billows in the middle and little besides. Valjean carries it in his thighs, his upper arms, and yes there is some in his stomach, but it is not immediately obvious.“Huh,” Javert says, noticing all this for the first time.
Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 15
Kudos: 68





	The Philanthropist's New Clothes

**Author's Note:**

> Look we need some small dick Valjean over here alright. Javert's a thirsty boi but big dicks aren't always the answer! Also chubby Valjean bc exCUSE ME MY BOY NEEDS ALL THE LOVE.

Javert has been retired for six months before he notices, and it takes Cosette to make him aware of it and he does not even hear through her, but through Valjean of all people.

“Pardon?” Javert says, holding back an ugly, if genuine, smile and uglier laugh.

“Javert,” Valjean trails off, not looking very amused at all and instead looking down at his hands with a shamed sort of flush heating his face. “Can you please not make light of it like that?”

“You do not need a tailor, Valjean,” Javert says with a huff of silent laughter at the thought. “Cosette need not see you in the height of fashion. She knows perfectly well you care little for that sort of thing!”

Valjean’s face reddens further.

“Javert, she is urging me to go not because she would like to see me in something considered fashionable within the last decade, but because...” He trails off once more, biting his lip.

Javert pushes the tray of little slices of apples and cheese closer to him. He has gotten in the habit when Valjean had needlessly martyred himself and would have starved himself in heartbreak if it were not for Javert’s stubborn intervention. Cosette thought it a wonderful idea that she perpetuated it to serve her father fruits and sweets and things he would otherwise deny himself out of some ridiculous suicidal urge. The trend has not stopped and here he is now.

“Eat something,” Javert says out of habit. Valjean, he had noticed, enjoys eating and playing with flavors, which made his foolishness all the more foolish.

“That is, ah, precisely the problem, my friend,” Valjean says. Javert noticed his eyes land on the plate for a long moment before flicking away.

Javert’s first reaction is the same as before: thinking Cosette’s request absurd. Valjean is no glutton. It takes Javert numerous attempts at prodding cheese or fruits or those little cakes Valjean enjoys that Cosette purchases for him for him to actually eat something. Surely, every hard-won mouthful of food into Valjean’s mouth could not possibly add up to this. Valjean walks frequently; they both do, especially considering Javert is officially retired and has little else to do with his time. No, Cosette’s request is absurd.

But then he pauses, and in that pause he looks. Valjean is certainly healthier than Javert has seen him before; a far cry from that withered being Javert had to shout into motion nearly every day. His cheeks are no longer gaunt, but full, his hands no longer frail-looking and skeletal, but strong and powerful even at his advanced age, his chest just as broad as it has always been. Yet that is not quite right either. Now that Javert is looking, the buttons on Valjean’s waistcoat are somewhat more snug than he would think comfortable, the fastening of his trousers likewise strained. Javert blinks, entirely blindsided to see that Valjean has not only gained back all that weight he lost pursuing nonsense, but more besides. It looks well on him, unlike other men Javert has seen where it billows in the middle and little besides. Valjean carries it in his thighs, his upper arms, and yes there is some in his stomach, but it is not immediately obvious.

“Huh,” Javert says, noticing all this for the first time.

“It would only be a few items,” Valjean assures him quickly. “It, well, I only need the necessities. Trousers, waistcoats, perhaps a new coat?” He bites at his lip again. “I would appreciate it greatly if you were to accompany me.”

“Of course I will,” Javert answers easily. “It is not as if I am lacking in free time now.”

Valjean smiles at him, hesitant as always but nevertheless present, and Javert’s heart does its usual leap in his chest because Javert is terribly and utterly in love with him. He does not know when it started nor does he particularly care. Was it at the barricades when Valjean spared his life? At the bridge where Valjean had taken his hand, always so cold in Valjean’s pleasant warmth? Perhaps it was in the winter when he was forcing Valjean to behave in a reasonable fashion and not allowing him to cut his beloved daughter from his life, as irritating and worrying as that endeavor was? Or was it after, at Cosette’s wedding where Valjean sat with his knee pressing Javert’s, where Javert had carried not one but two handkerchiefs knowing Valjean to be poor at controlling his emotions? Was it walks in the garden? Their talks of philosophy and the law and Javert’s place in it all? Sharing meals and wine and enjoying each other’s company?

He does not know. All he knows is that he loves Valjean utterly, that living under the same roof and seeing his small, quick smiles every day brings him joy, that their walks satisfy something in him that has never been satisfied before. That he occasionally thinks of taking his hand and kissing the knuckles, the scars around his wrist, then his lips and his neck and every part of Valjean that he is allowed, to touch him and press into his warmth and satisfy him in both the physical and the romantic ways? What he may think behind his closed bedroom door is strictly Javert’s business and Valjean is not to know of it. Such things are not illegal, per say, but Valjean is a far more devout follower of God than Javert could ever be. He dares not allow Valjean the possibility of looking at him in disgust, throwing him out onto the street. There is nowhere for Javert to go if he did and nowhere else he would rather be.

So he bathes in the glory of Valjean’s rare smiles and infrequent laughter and, sometimes, is honored enough to be the cause of such things, and never will he mention how he craves for more of him.

“Thank you,” Valjean says with a loosening of the shoulders.

“I know how you are,” Javert tells him with a wave of his hand. “As long as you do not purchase something absurd.”

Another flicker of a smile. “I will even allow you to pick the fabric. Is that fair?”

Javert snorts, allowing his lips to quirk upwards in return. “You would make a mess of it.”

“That is why Cosette suggested you come with me.”

Javert looks away. Cosette is certainly not as oblivious as her father to how Javert sometimes stares at Valjean for too long, sits too close or allows his hand to linger on his arm for a moment longer than necessary. She continues to give him significant glances that continue to baffle him and he has avoided being trapped by her so far and has no earthly idea what such looks are trying to say to him. On occasion she looks disappointed, at others amused, or sometimes even expectant. He does not know what she means and is afraid to find out. At least she has not spoken to her father about Javert’s more than friendly behavior. A blessing, perhaps. He can hope, but dares not.

They make plans to go in three days’ time, which is two days too long now that Javert has noticed exactly how tight Valjean’s clothes fit him now. It is exceedingly difficult to look away from how the fabric stretched around the parts of him that carry the weight he has gained. Javert enjoys looking at Valjean, he always has, but now it is frankly ridiculous how much he stares. The waistcoat certainly is under some strain as it holds in the bit of belly Valjean has, but it is the trousers that cling to his thighs which hardly give anything to the imaginations capture his eyes the most. Valjean’s strength has always been a weakness of Javert’s he can fully admit, especially now when he has the advantage of hindsight to tell him exactly why watching Madeleine lift that cart ruffled him so thoroughly, and now with how the linen stretches and pulls around his powerful thighs and backside...

Well! Javert is only human.

Valjean notices his frequent stares and starts hiding himself behind chairs and tables and the like, an unreadable but negative look to his face, and Javert desperately tries to stop himself. What is he, some leering young dandy? He should be able to control himself better than this!

He cannot. Valjean’s thick, powerful thighs draw his attention again and again. He is lucky that the fabric does not cling so tight around Valjean’s groin that he could see the obvious shape of his manhood or he would be entirely unable to stop himself from asking, begging, to touch. At least for this it is only his thighs, yet Javert finds himself hopelessly fixated. How would it feel to touch those thighs? There would be a layer of softness, yes, but Javert is certain that it hides strong muscles underneath. He wonders if Valjean would mind if he lavished attention there, if he would make small sounds as Javert ran his hands over them for long minutes, or his tongue, or, oh _God_ , even his _cock_ —

Javert excuses himself with haste, leaving behind a confused Valjean who was just now in the middle of reading aloud to him.

It is maddening. It is distracting. It is both as if his soul has gone to heaven yet it is burning as if in hell.

“Javert?” Valjean asks several times. “Are you quite alright?”

“Fine,” Javert replies. He follows it up with various terrible excuses, such like he made the fire too hot again despite it being summer or he was simply tired from their walk or that Cosette’s husband was especially irritating that day. Valjean knows he is lying, anyone should for how horrible he is at it, but thankfully does not press. Javert would be unable to stop himself from telling him the truth in all its sordid detail.

For three days, Valjean hides himself away and Javert desperately tries to stop his mind from imagining what he would do with him if only given permission. It follows him everywhere, into his dreams even, and he wakes with an ache between his thighs and Valjean’s name on his breath.

At last, the day comes and Javert accompanies Valjean to the tailor. Valjean is withdrawn, as he has become since the day he asked if Javert would come with him, and Javert is already mourning the future lack of Valjean’s tight trousers and the wonderful view they give him of Valjean’s backside.

“I could ask Cosette not to bring us such desserts,” Valjean says, looking for excuses not to go. He dislikes the touch of strangers on him. All too understandable when Javert knows what goes on between prisoners, both the violent and more devious sinful acts. However, he is free with his casual touches with Javert, and Javert is honored with each one.

“No,” Javert says far too quickly.

Valjean frowns. “You barely touch them, save to give them to me.”

“Well, yes,” Javert fumbles, as he very much likes watching Valjean eat them, “but you enjoy them.”

Valjean looks away. “I find enjoyment in many things. One less would be no hardship.”

“I will not have you depriving yourself again,” Javert tells him firmly. “It is one fitting, Valjean. You will survive this.”

Valjean falls into another unhappy silence.

The tailor talks too much and seems focused on exactly how much weight Valjean has gained since his last measurement. Valjean shrinks away, looking more uncomfortable by the second and all but flinching every time the measuring tape comes near him. Javert frowns, arms crossed, from the corner of the room. Valjean is not vain, but Javert was unaware that this bothered him so much.

“Is it so surprising?” Javert says to the tailor, barely keeping his voice from dropping into a growl. “He was far too thin before and miserable besides! Now, he is healthy and happy.”

The tailor pauses, takes one look at the expression on Javert’s face, and backtracks quickly. It is still not enough to remove the look of shame on Valjean’s face. Javert narrows his eyes. Certainly, this is something he will need to confront Valjean about before he does something idiotic.

It takes an hour to finish his measurements and for Javert to pick out the cloth. He is terrible, unable to stop himself from holding samples up to Valjean so that the back of his hand is allowed to brush against his stomach, his chest, his thighs. Javert lingers there the longest and hates himself for it. Still, he does his best to choose colors that complement him even knowing the new clothes will likely turn Valjean even more handsome and drive Javert to insanity.

“Thank you for coming with me,” Valjean tells him on the walk back.

“Nonsense,” Javert says. “I can hardly trust you to pick things that would look good on you.”

Valjean looks away.

Javert brushes shoulders with him. “I jest, Valjean.”

“Oh,” he says. He does not sound reassured.

“You will look very handsome in the new clothes,” Javert says. “That tailor may chatter far too much, but his work is excellent. He made Cosette’s wedding gown, after all.”

“She did look beautiful in that,” Valjean agrees.

They fall silent for several minutes.

“Javert?” Valjean asks quietly. “Be honest with me, please.”

“Always.”

Valjean bites his lip. “I am... not accustomed to looking like I do now. Does it bother you?”

Javert blinks in surprise. “Of course not. Why do you ask?”

“I have noticed you staring.”

Now it is Javert’s turn to look away. “I am not staring because I dislike it.” He dares not say more.

Valjean waits, then says, “Oh,” in a quiet voice.

Javert nearly tells him that he stares because he wishes to place his mouth on every part of him in worship, that he held up fabrics he knew would look terrible to him today just so he would have an excuse to touch him. However, he can say none of that. He cannot say that he would continue to love Valjean regardless of his shape. He cannot say that he finds Valjean’s present self pleasing to look at and frequently imagines that it would be even more pleasing to touch.

Instead, he says nothing, and they continue on their way.

It is two weeks until Valjean’s new clothes are ready and Valjean only grows more avoidant of Javert’s stare. He eats when prompted, but he moves slowly, as if the act of eating is suddenly a hardship. Javert does his best to assure him that he looks just fine, but it does not seem to be helping.

Once, Valjean bends to choose a book on the lowest shelf and gives Javert a wonderful look at his backside that freezes him to the spot. He has never been tempted to touch more, watching the right fabric cling to each round buttock and giving him the perfect view. He aches to know how they would feel, if it would be soft and warm in his hands. He is so arrested by the sight that he cannot look away in time when Valjean stands upright and sees him. His face colors quite deeply and he makes his excuses with his head held low and his shoulders around his ears before Javert could give a horrible excuse of his own.

It must be some kind of torture, Javert thinks, to have Valjean before him like this and be forbidden to touch.

Things are strained between them, Valjean looking at him with a question in his eyes and Javert being unable to answer without outright proclaiming his affections. He is tempted. On occasion, Valjean smiles at him for no reason, touches his hand or his elbow without a thought, voices his insecurities regarding Cosette and his guilt with trust. Valjean has certainly looked at him, but Javert is not handsome in the least. His face is ugly, his smile terrible and his laugh worse, his body made up of bones and sharp angles and none of Valjean’s powerful majesty. Valjean certainly does not look at him as he looks at Valjean.

By the time Valjean’s new clothes are ready, Javert is at his wit’s end. Valjean is miserable, withdrawn, and quick to hide himself when Javert cannot stop his eyes from staring. Javert has no earthly idea how to make it better. Every time he assures Valjean that he looks perfectly fine, Valjean only withdraws more.

Valjean is shocked when Javert announces he is accompanying Valjean to his fitting at the tailor’s.

“Why?” Valjean asks. “Pardon my surprise, but there will be nothing that needs your input.”

“You are uncomfortable with this,” Javert says. Valjean looks away, guilty. “Allow me to reassure you that you will look perfectly fine.”

Valjean sighs. “If you must.”

Javert must.

The new set of clothes are finished, but the tailor wishes for Valjean to try them before taking them home just to be certain the fit is accurate. Valjean nearly declines, but Javert jumps in to assure the tailor Valjean will do that right now. He receives a pleading look for his interruption, but he does not back down.

“What would you do if we returned home and the fit was not right?” Javert mutters to him. “Better to know now than be forced to make another trip.”

Valjean wilts, giving in.

Javert was correct in assuming Valjean would be very handsome in the new clothes. He walks out of the fitting room hesitantly and Javert’s mouth goes dry at the sight of him. His trousers are an earthy brown, his coat matching, his waistcoat an olive green. With appropriately sized clothes, he looks stunning, even if the obscene cling of his trousers is no longer.

“How is it?” Valjean asks hesitantly.

Javert is forced to clear his throat before he can speak. “Ah, yes. Very... very fine. Handsome.” He closes his mouth before he says anything more inane.

“You think?”

“Of course that is what I think!” Javert replies at once. “Why would I lie to you? I am a terrible liar.”

Valjean’s lips flicker into a smile for a brief moment, the first in days. “I know.”

He pays for his clothes and wears the new outfit out the door and Javert, damn him, still cannot stop himself from looking. Valjean’s white curls are a contrast to his darker coat, the green of his eyes brought out by his waistcoat.

“Javert?” he asks. “Do you see something wrong?”

“The opposite,” Javert replies in a thoughtless mutter.

Valjean flushes before Javert realizes what he said.

“Er,” Javert tries to correct. “No, nothing wrong. Everything is—”

Valjean brushes Javert’s hand with his own, stopping every thought in Javert’s head. If he wanted to, Javert could reach out and take his. As if they were lovers. He almost does, his fingers twitching with the desire, and their hands brush again.

“ _Oh_... Javert.” Valjean says his name in that soft way he sometimes does, the way that sets Javert’s heart skipping.

“Yes?” Javert asks. He can feel the heat in his own face. How embarrassing.

Valjean smiles. That too has Javert’s heart jumping. They brush hands for a third time. It cannot be an accident.

“Would,” he pauses, hesitant. “Would you like to call me Jean?”

He uses the informal _tu_ rather than their usual formal _vous_ and Javert stops right there in the street, mind stalled.

Valjean stops a step ahead, a hesitant, worried look to him. “Javert?”

“I...” Javert swallows. “I would like that, yes, but we, our history...”

Valjean smiles again, clearly relieved. He reaches to take Javert’s wrist between his fingers, tugging him forward. “Come. This is a discussion to be had at home.”

“Yes,” Javert agrees readily.

They continue walking, perhaps a bit faster than they were.

“I have only been Javert,” Javert says. “Call me what you will.”

He still uses _vous_ , memories of a time when he did not out of cruelty stark in his mind, but Valjean’s smile widens into something sweet anyway. “I would call you by no other name.”

When they return to their shared home, Valjean closes the door behind them and sets down his purchases on the table, then turns his attentions to Javert. His eyes are bright, his smile unending. Javert’s heart skips.

“May I kiss you?” he asks.

Javert takes two strides forward, his hands flying to each side of Valjean’s face, and kisses him. It is not graceful or perfect and actually a little bit uncomfortable when he accidentally pushes too hard and his nose pokes painfully into Valjean’s cheek, but Valjean makes a sound of pleased surprise and does not seem to mind. It is wetter than he thought it would be, Valjean’s mouth having fallen open in surprise. Javert tastes him nearly on accident and _oh_ , yes, he could do that again. Valjean tastes just a bit sweet, their tongues meeting clumsily and sending a shiver down Javert’s spine.

“So?” Valjean asks, his thumbs smoothing Javert’s wayward whiskers. He is still smiling, pulled back just enough to see each other clearly. “Will you call me Jean?”

“Yes,” Javert answers, undisguised want and longing in his voice. “I have wanted for many months now.”

Valjean’s smile turns brilliant. “Good.”

He does not ask if Javert will use _tu_ with him and Javert is relieved. Instead, they kiss. Javert could kiss him forever, Valjean’s chapped lips under his thin ones.

“I have wanted you,” Valjean murmurs.

“I am yours,” Javert replies, distracted by Valjean’s hands on his face.

He moves his own hands down, feeling Valjean’s wide shoulders and broad chest, hungry to finally touch what he has wished to for months. Valjean allows him, even humming under his lips and looping his arms around Javert’s neck to bring him closer. It is quite wonderful, more so than Javert ever imagined. He is allowed to look, allowed to touch, even welcomed to do so. His hands linger around Valjean’s middle, where he has filled out and softened, and Valjean pulls away.

“What?” Javert asks, hands resting on Valjean’s hips as he is unable to let go of him completely.

Valjean wets his lips, his pink tongue catching Javert’s eyes. “I, ah...”

“Would you like me to stop?”

Valjean shakes his head, white hair falling in front of his eyes. “No, no. I only...” He takes a breath. “Must you focus your attentions there?”

Javert blinks. “Why not? I have wanted to since you first brought it to my attention.”

Valjean colors. “It makes me uncomfortable.”

“I have not known you to indulge in vanity.”

“It is not vanity,” Valjean argues weakly. “I dislike that I look different.”

“You look better,” Javert tells him. “How I did not see it before is a mystery, but surely you noticed how I have been unable to take my eyes off of you.”

Valjean’s hands clutch at Javert's coat, his head ducked down so his hair hides his eyes. “I thought you were judging me, finding fault in me for allowing myself to indulge as I have.”

“Never,” Javert says, allowing his thumbs to draw circles on Valjean’s hips. “Have I not been the one encouraging you to indulge? Seeing you take pleasure in taste has been my enjoyment.”

“Oh,” Valjean says. “Is that why you do not partake?”

“Partly,” Javert admits. “I find I am satisfied by smaller portions. I dislike so many sweets when one is enough for me.”

“Ah,” Valjean says. His hands relax on Javert’s coat. “Will you partake in this? I have thought—”

“Gladly,” Javert interrupts. “I have spent many nights thinking about you, about this.” He gives Valjean’s hips a light squeeze, Valjean’s pleasant new softness filling his hands. “I have been thinking of little else for weeks. Your old trousers, Jean, they were driving me to madness with how well they displayed your thighs.”

Valjean flushes red, even the tips of his ears turning rosy. “Is- is that so?”

“Mhm,” Javert hums in agreement. “I have wanted very much to kiss you for many months, but these last weeks have quite tried my restraint.”

“Surely, I looked more appealing before, well...” Valjean looks down at himself. “You are quite slim, after all.”

“I have found you appealing for a long while now,” Javert tells him, sharing his secrets at last. “What does it matter what I look like when we are talking about you? I much prefer you happy as you are now than that miserable skeleton of a man who did not think he was worth the food on his plate.”

“Oh,” Valjean says softly. “Are you sure?”

“I would not have stared as I did if I did not like it,” Javert replies. “As long as you are happy, the shape of you matters little to me. However, I have thought quite a lot about your thighs as they are now, how soft they would be to touch, how it disguises your strength. Others may look at you and see a harmless gentleman, but I know how powerful you are, the feats you have accomplished. Only I know what you can do if only you wished it.”

“Oh,” Valjean says again, his face now a deep red flush.

“I have developed quite the fixation,” Javert continues, his voice already growing rough and deep with only the thought of it. “May I show you, Jean? May I be allowed to touch you at last? I swear upon my life I will be careful with you, for it is my greatest wish that you experience only joy.”

“Javert,” Valjean whispers breathlessly. “How can I refuse when you ask so sweetly?”

He draws Javert into another kiss, the both of them mimicking what they like from the other. There are no painful bumps made this attempt; they are learning quickly. Javert thinks that he could easily kiss Valjean forever, drown himself in the taste of him, in the feelings of joy and happiness that bleed from Valjean’s mouth.

“Oh, I do adore you,” Valjean says softly, holding Javert’s face in gentle hands as one would hold delicate china. “You have done so much for me.”

“You are the one that opened my eyes,” Javert replies. “I would be dead twice over if not for you. I was such a fool.”

“Hush, Javert,” Valjean says. “Let us not speak of the past. Instead, I would very much like it if you were to, ah, follow through on your words.”

“I wish to fall to my knees and worship you,” Javert mutters, pressing close to speak in his ear. Valjean’s shiver when Javert’s lips brush his skin only drives him forward. “Every new swell, every old scar— I wish to taste them all, to learn what makes you sigh and to sooth old wounds from years past. I wish to gorge myself on you, Jean. I want to hear you say my name, I want to taste every part of you, I want—”

“Yes,” Valjean gasps, hands holding tight to Javert’s waistcoat. “Oh, yes, please, Javert...”

Javert doubts he has enough patience to wait until they get to the bedroom, but the sofa is close and good enough for his purposes. Toussaint is not in, as she only spends mornings at their home before spending her afternoons attending to Cosette’s whims, and Javert is confident they will not be interrupted. Even if they are, he thinks, it would not be enough to stop him now that Valjean has given him permission.

“Sit,” Javert tells him, urging him down with both hands on Valjean’s wide chest.

Valjean, unusually obedient, does so with a smile of amusement on his face. His cheeks are still flushed, his lips kissed red.

“Do tell me if you dislike this,” Javert says, distracted by the way Valjean’s plush thighs pillow outward when he sits. Javert hovers his hands over them, undecided in how he wants to touch.

“As long as it is you, I believe I will like everything,” Valjean says. His smile turns nervous as he watches Javert’s hands, his own clutching at nothing on the fabric of the sofa beside him, but he does not tell Javert to stop.

Javert touches him at last, Valjean’s thick thighs filling his hands to the brim, his soft flesh feeling like heaven. When he squeezes, he cannot stop the groan from his own throat, watching his hands on Valjean. He does it again, feeling his cock stirring in his trousers.

“Can you—” Javert clears his suddenly dry throat. “Can you take these off?”

“My new trousers?” Valjean asks, brow furrowing in confusion. “I thought you liked them.”

“Oh, I do,” Javert says, glancing up. “However, I do believe that they should be spared from certain... stains, shall we say.”

“ _Javert_ —”

“If you want me to ruin your new trousers, I am more than happy to obey,” Javert says, yellowed teeth bared in a grin. “I do so want to touch you, Jean. I would take you in my mouth if you will allow it.”

Valjean flushes red at once and makes a strangled sound that conveys that he is scandalized by the idea but would very much like Javert to do just that.

Javert’s grin widens. “Take them off.”

Again, Valjean obeys him, fussing with his fastenings with fumbling fingers while Javert looks on, for once not hiding his desire. Valjean, usually so careful with his things and gentle with his actions, rushes through unbuttoning his braces and only hesitates a brief moment before revealing himself. The little wiggle he performs to remove his trousers from his thighs without standing up is far more enticing than it has any right to be. Javert watches, enraptured, before grabbing one of the many useless, decorative pillows Cosette insists her father have and throwing it to the floor. His knees follow, the pillow softening his landing for he is no longer a young man, his hands braced on either of Valjean’s thick thighs, and finds himself in heaven.

Valjean’s face and hands are quite tan from walking in the sun and his gardening, but his thighs are another matter entirely. These have not seen the sun in many, many years, covered up with linen and wool and other sorts of finery, and are laid out before him as vast planes of milky skin and covered in short, pale hairs. Fine white lines of age run parallel down the insides of his thighs, a few disappearing under the hem of his shirt. Valjean’s hands hold that quite tightly, hiding the other thing Javert very much wishes to see quite deliberately. Javert is unbothered by it. Perhaps it is even for the best as no there is nothing to distract him from finally touching what has been taunting him.

Javert reminds himself to breathe, running both hands slowly up Valjean’s thighs, feeling the fat and muscle move under his touch. Valjean’s skin is soft and warm, the short hairs tickling Javert’s wrist. There are very few scars here, but several freckles. Javert spots a mole just above Valjean’s left knee. He is enraptured. Nothing save Valjean’s request will convince him to remove his hands from this heavenly skin.

“You are incredible,” Javert mutters wondrously, again running greedy hands down the length of those magnificent legs. His fingers are splayed wide and still they do not even begin to contain Valjean. Nothing could contain him. Valjean cannot be contained, there are no words to accurately describe what Javert feels under his hands.

“I am not,” Valjean disagrees. “I’ve become... soft. Weak.”

He tenses under Javert’s hands, the muscles growing taught, and Javert nearly moans.

“Never weak,” Javert says. “You could crush a man with these, you could still lift boulders and walls and lift carts stuck in the mud if you wanted.” He looks up at Valjean’s face, aware of how he kneels between Valjean’s knees like a sinner begging absolution. The comparison is apt. “You could hold me here with your legs alone, lift your calves over my shoulder and keep me here at your feet for however long you wish.”

Valjean’s face is flushed a brilliant shade of red, his eyes dark. His lower lip has been bitten swollen. Javert has never seen anything more beautiful.

He lowers his head, keeping eye contact with Valjean, to place a soft kiss on his right knee. The muscle there twitches, moving under his lips, and Javert’s eyes flutter closed. The kiss quickly loses all structure and becomes a wet, open thing with lips and tongue and a gentle press of teeth. Valjean’s warm skin tastes of salt and musk and Javert is quick to drown himself in it. He has never known anything greater.

“Oh—” Valjean gasps from above. His thighs tremble and Javert moans. “Oh, Javert, oh...”

He wiggles again, pressing forward with his hands tight on the hem of his shirt. Javert groans, pressing his mouth against the other knee now, daring to press his teeth a little more and suck careful marks into soft, pale flesh.

Valjean gasps softly, muscle tensing firm under Javert’s lips. He is so strong, even now after so many years. Javert draws away to admire his work, little marks blooming like flowers on Valjean’s pale skin. Like roses, Javert thinks, like the pink ones near the gate that he despises and Valjean insists he grows for Cosette but always touches with a reverence that Javert had been fiercely envious of. Now, here at his feet, Javert can touch, can take his perfect flesh under his mouth and place roses on his skin, and no longer gives a single whit about the pink flowers growing near the gate.

“Surely I do not require s-so much attention,” Valjean says, stuttering in the middle of his speech when Javert makes to suck another mark.

“I have thought about doing this every day for the last fortnight,” Javert mutters against pale skin. “You require all of my attention, Jean. Always.”

He rubs his whiskered cheek along the inside of one perfect thigh and then the other, the soft heat of Valjean’s skin against his face drawing an unexpected sound of pleasure from his throat. He works slowly, determined to savor this for as long as possible. There is a part of him that still expects the worst, that still expects Valjean to curse him and throw him out, no matter how long he has lived here in Valjean’s house or how many times Valjean forgives him. There is still that ugly part of his soul that knows he is not worthy of this enjoyment, that tells him it will end sooner than he would like, and so Javert will enjoy himself to the fullest while Valjean is willing to bare himself for him.

By the time he has reached Valjean’s groin and truly has nowhere else to go other than the obvious location still hidden under his shirt, the inside of Valjean’s thighs are covered in pink and red marks that match Javert’s mouth exactly. He tried to be careful, to not allow his enthusiasm to get ahead of him, but there are some that are darker than the others or have a clear imprint of teeth. However, Valjean does not seem to mind, one of his hands fluttering between Javert’s shoulder and head and the base of his neck where a leather tie keeps Javert’s long hair out of the way. Javert runs his hands over Valjean’s marked thighs, still fixated by the handfuls of him he is allowed to take, and Valjean sighs.

“Oh, oh, Javert,” Valjean sighs in what is nearly a whisper.

“Was that good?” Javert asks. “Did I hurt you?”

Valjean smiles, shaking his head in a negative. His fingers pet the fine hair on the back of Javert’s neck that never seem to stay in their queue. “It was so good, Javert. I- I never imagined you would kneel before me like this, that your mouth would feel so good...”

“I can do it again,” Javert says, likely sounding far too eager. He settles back on his calves, his mouth a breath away from the mole on Valjean’s left knee, prepared to start again at once.

“Oh, please no,” Valjean says, flush staining his cheeks pink again. “I doubt I could last if you did it again so soon, even at my age.”

It is like all the air leaves him at once, leaving Javert dizzy with the thrilling possibility he could make Valjean finish from this alone.

“I would not mind,” Javert says breathlessly, looking up at him in rapture.

Valjean’s flush deepens, but he does not look away for long moments. “...You mean that.”

“Yes,” Javert answers. “When do I lie?”

Valjean shifts, turning his head away. “I would like to touch you in turn.” He wets his lips briefly and Javert wonders if he needs to ask permission to kiss him or not. “Surely, you have your own, ah... desire? I would like to see you satisfied as well.”

“This satisfies me very well,” Javert answers, then looks down again at the thighs he painted so prettily with his mouth. He cannot think of a sight he would want to see more than this: Valjean’s thick bare thighs laid out before him, bitten and sucked until pink and tender, the fabric of his shirtsleeves still held to hide his modesty, the look of flushed adoration of Valjean’s face. It is perfect. He would change nothing.

Then he abruptly thinks of what Valjean’s thighs would look like with his release all over them, with _both_ of their releases all over them, and makes a helpless sound very like a whimper.

“Is something wrong?” Valjean asks, tense and worried. “Javert?”

“I want to finish on your thighs,” Javert says, caught and fixated on the idea. “I want to see you finish here, all over yourself, and then I want to rub my cock through it all until I join you. Until I finish on you. And then—” he can hardly breathe, the image exciting him so, “—then I want to clean you up with my tongue. Lick every drop from off your skin until you beg me to stop.” He looks up at Valjean, very much aware that he is begging. He dares not touch himself in his trousers for he is far too close to finishing just thinking about it. “May I, Jean?”

“You—” The red flush on Valjean’s cheeks has spread down to his neck. “You would like that?”

“Very much,” Javert says. “More than anything.”

“Well.” Valjean says, bringing his hands up to his neck to unfasten his collar. Already, his cravat is untied around his neck, the color spilled over his chest. “Perhaps w-we should put aside my new things first. To avoid... stains.”

Javert can do nothing but stare, hardly able to comprehend that Valjean has agreed. It hardly seems possible that he would agree to this, that he would give this so easily.

“I would understand if you did not want to,” Javert hurries to say, unable to stop staring at Valjean’s fingers working his collar open. “Please, Jean, do not be afraid to say no to me. For this, anything, and I will respect it. I am more than happy to do anything you wish. Simply name it, Jean, and I will agree.”

“Anything?” Valjean asks, a hint of a smile on his face as he struggles with the button.

“Anything at all,” Javert answers.

“Then get this off me. I like how you look at me in this waistcoat- it would be a shame to ruin it.”

Javert is nearly certain he makes a most undignified noise at that, but cannot quite be sure when his mind goes entirely blank for a long moment.

He is successful about removing Valjean’s collar button even if he is less successful about remembering where he put it, although it likely fell to the floor and rolled under the couch as Javert explored the delights of Valjean’s uncovered neck with his mouth. Somehow, he ends up straddling Valjean’s lap with Valjean’s hands in his unbound hair, kissing him while his own hands have forgotten how to unfasten the buttons of a waistcoat no matter his attempts. He cannot find it in himself to be frustrated when Valjean is so warm and present and powerful under him, bearing Javert’s weight with an ease that draws a soft sound from him with every minor movement of his legs. He is so perfect.

“Buttons,” Javert mutters against Valjean’s lips, “were a terrible invention.”

Valjean chuckles, fingers releasing Javert’s hair only to attempt to untangle the knots they caused. “There is no rush. Let us savor this.”

“I can savor you later,” Javert argues, but he does slow and suddenly buttons are much easier to slip through their holes when he is not tugging at it as he was. “I spent a long time watching you, wanting you. I have waited a long time, and I am not a patient man.”

“I disagree,” Valjean says. “You are very patient to wait for me. I am sorry it took me so long to realize, to want you in return. How many years was it, Javert? How long did you wait?”

Javert makes a wordless irrigated noise, parting Valjean’s newly unbuttoned waistcoat and attempts to push it off his shoulders. “Not so long as you seem to think. Will you take this off already, Jean? I have done all the hard work for you and yet I still see you wearing it!”

Valjean laughs softly, but manages to remove his hands from Javert long enough to remove his waistcoat from off his shoulders and throw it carelessly to the side. Normally, Javert would scold him for treating a perfectly fine waistcoat so abhorrently, and a new one at that!, but finds himself distracted by a new, more dastardly foe; for Valjean’s shirtsleeves have buttons as well, smaller and more delicate than those of his waistcoat. Javert growls in frustration.

“Am I allowed to see you as well?” Valjean asks.

“Whatever you desire,” Javert answers, abandoning Valjean to reach for his own throat to bare himself as asked. At least he is familiar with doing his own buttons.

“You did not answer me,” Valjean says. “How many years did you wait?”

“Does it matter?” Javert replies irritably, annoyed with how many damned buttons seem to exist in men’s clothes. “I believe I wanted in Montreuil-sur-Mer, as watching you lift that cart from the mud gave me a rush I have only recently begun to understand— _Why_ are there so many of these damn things?”

Valjean laughs softly. “Patience, Javert. We have time. You wanted me in Montreuil-sur-Mer? All those years ago?”

Javert growls. “No. Not like this. I hated you, but even then, I think I wanted even if I did not consciously know. There was no particular date when I became aware that I was quite in love with you—”

Valjean’s hands cease their progress on Javert’s own shirtsleeve buttons, hanging frozen in the air.

“—although certainly after I came to live here. Well, perhaps not then, but certainly not before the rebellion... Jean? Why have you stopped?”

“Javert, can you...” Valjean wets his lips. His eyes are wide. “Can you, perhaps, say that again? I believe I may have misheard you.”

“It was sometime between the rebellion and my retirement,” Javert says. “It was quite a slow thing, I really have no earthly idea when the seed was first planted—

“Before that.”

Javert frowns. “It is no secret between us that I hated you quite fiercely in Montreuil-sur-Mer, Jean.”

“No,” Valjean says. “Just after that part.”

Javert’s frown deepens. “What do you think I said? I admit I cannot recall the exact words I spoken when I was distracted by these thrice-damned buttons!”

“I thought I heard you say that—” Valjean swallows. “—that you are in love with me.”

Javert blinks. “Of course I am in love with you. Quite madly. I thought I made that quite clear before you dragged me into your lap. Given, that was not an entirely selfless act, considering how much I enjoyed it and how frequently as of late I have imagine performing— mhm!”

Valjean kisses him quite suddenly and catching Javert off-guard. This is not the same as before, where they did not know quite what they were doing but were no less enthusiastic about it, but there is a similar sense of urgency. Javert would like to know why Valjean has chosen to kiss him at this moment, but quickly gains his bearings and responds as well as he can for someone of his limited practice. Not so long later, Javert tastes salt on Valjean’s lips and pulls away with a frown.

“Jean?”

“Oh, forgive me,” Valjean says, attempting to wipe his eyes discreetly but utterly failing when Javert is straddling him as he is, held close.

“Is something wrong?” Javert asks. “Am I too heavy for you?”

“No, nothing is wrong,” Valjean answers. He is smiling, eyes bright with tears but so happy. “Everything is very right. Stay right where you are, my Javert. Everything is perfect. I simply... did not ever expect to hear you say that to me so bluntly.”

“Say what?” Javert asks.

“That you love me.”

“It is no different than saying I once hated you.”

Valjean shakes his head. “To me, they are very different. Off with this, let me look at you my dear, and I... I will do the same.”

Javert’s waistcoat and shirt join Valjean’s new waistcoat somewhere on the floor, Javert unfortunately being required to remove himself temporarily from Valjean’s lap in order to hastily remove his trousers, and therefore shoes as well, at Valjean’s request. His cock stands at attention, hard and red, and Javert makes no attempt to hide just how Valjean affects him. Valjean looks upon him with something close to adoration, chest bare but shoulders curled inward and hands preserving his modesty when Javert wishes for him to be as immodest as possible.

Like his thighs, the skin of Valjean’s chest and arms is pale. Unlike his thighs, there are scars. Circles around his wrists, ankles, and neck speak of the irons he wore for nineteen years, the old brand upon his chest off-center and a pale pink even after so many years. There is an odd burn scar on his arm that looks much newer along that Javert resolves to ask about later. Javert knows there must be scars on his back from the lash. Perhaps, much later, he will press his lips to every faded line, every burn, every hurt that has ever marked Valjean. He knows Valjean still carries guilt. Javert wishes to absolve him of it, no matter how many hours he must spend placing pink roses on his skin with his mouth. Speaking of, the lighter marks Javert had so recently placed upon Valjean’s thighs are already fading and he is tempted to fall to his knees again to renew them once more.

“Oh, look at you,” Valjean says, undisguised fondness and admiration on his face as he takes in Javert’s nude form.

Javert huffs. “I am not much to look at.” He is scarred by a hard life and police work rather than unjust suffering. His dark skin stretches over his ribs, the bones of his elbows and knees, the jut of his hips, and what muscle he has is wiry unlike Valjean’s clear power. Javert has always been thin and ugly.

“I disagree.”

“Surely you are much more impressive.”

Valjean flushes, this time in clear embarrassment, curling further into himself. “I, ah... I can say for certain that I am... decidedly not.”

In truth, Javert has never thought much on the subject of what lays between Valjean’s legs when he had always been distracted by his magnificent thighs or his powerful arms or his warm hands or the many other things Javert always finds himself staring at. He imagined something, of course, but it was always more of an afterthought rather than the focus of his fantasies when he allowed himself those. Something with girth, perhaps, to match the rest of him, but that was as far as he ever got when he bothered to imagine it. It simply had never occurred to him to wonder.

“You are already impressive,” Javert tells him, drawing his hand across one of Valjean’s powerful shoulders and down an arm still thick with muscle despite his age. “Did I not express my worship of you clear enough? Shall I fall to my knees and try again?”

“I do not require worship, Javert,” Valjean argues.

“I wish to, and so I will,” Javert replies. “Nothing could convince me otherwise, Jean, so do not try.”

“Not even if I were...” He wets his lips anxiously. “...small?”

“Not even if you had nothing there at all,” Javert answers. “Although I have imagined putting my mouth on you, your thighs over my shoulders to keep me at your feet for as long as you wish, so I do hope there is at least _something,_ regardless of size.”

Valjean smiles hesitantly, still clearly afraid for Javert to mock him. “I admit that this is the second thing I have been afraid of, the first being that you would scorn me at once for daring to desire you in even the most innocent ways. However, I have come this far, and it would not be fair to you if we stopped now for something so silly as this.”

“I would be content to simply look at you just as I am,” Javert says. “Even if you did not show me. You have allowed me to look, touch, to kiss, when never once did I imagine I would be allowed the privilege of doing so.”

“You are too good to me, Javert,” Valjean says, hiding a smile. “Forgive me for my foolishness, but... well. Perhaps you will understand my anxiety when you see.” He takes a breath and slowly removes his hands, eyes closed and head turned away.

Saying that Valjean is simply small is an overstatement. Javert had not thought that an erect cock could not be overshadowed by the size of its testicles, but that is what he sees. It is maybe only as long as Valjean’s thumb and twice as wide, being less than half the size of Javert’s own cock which he had never thought of as anything but average. No wonder Javert had not seen evidence of it when Valjean’s trousers were tight against his flesh. Besides its size, it looks the same as any other, the foreskin cut away to reveal a shining head. He spends a moment in shock, staring at it, before nearly asking Valjean if it works. Of course it does, obviously. Is he stupid? If it did not, it would not be pressing into the curve of Valjean’s stomach, small as it is, and Valjean would have an entirely different reason to be anxious. There is really nothing stopping him from painting his thighs with his own spend as Javert desperate wishes to see, although there might be a challenge in encouraging Valjean to finish hard enough to get the desired effect.

Javert does enjoy a challenge, especially one that involves pleasuring Valjean, and decides that he is not disappointed or any such nonsense.

“I do believe there will be no issues,” Javert says.

Valjean opens his eyes, glancing at him fearfully. “Are you quite certain?”

“When do I lie?”

Valjean all but sags in relief. “Thank you, Javert. I have found it to be satisfactory enough for myself, although I do admit I rarely use it like this, but there is a certain expectation for men to be... endowed. It has been cause for embarrassment in the past and I was not certain if I was strong enough to bear it if I did not meet your expectations.”

Javert makes a dismissive noise. “There is more to a man than the size of his prick. You have always found creative solutions; I am quite confident you will think of something if a problem does indeed arise. Now show me how you touch that prick of yours, Jean, for certainly the technique familiar to me will be quite ineffective on you.”

Valjean makes a noise that is somehow a cross between a laugh and scandalized gasp. Javert can only bare his teeth in a grin at him, for he has discovered he greatly enjoys shocking Valjean with suggestive words. The look of scandal crossed with delight is quite satisfying.

“Will you come kiss me first?” Valjean asks shyly.

Javert is back on his lap in a moment, the heat of Valjean’s skin on his own bare thighs glorious and addicting. He groans into Valjean’s mouth when he kisses him. Valjean replies with a pleased hum. It is perfect. His cock aches in the most delicious way at being ignored for so long, occasionally the head of it rubbing against Valjean’s stomach lightly as they kiss and sending little shocks of pleasure through him.

“Show me, Jean,” Javert mutters against his lips. “Show me how to touch you.”

Valjean pulls away, flush on his face but a faint smile on his lips, and turns his attention downwards. He takes his cock in his hand, massaging the head with the pad of his thumb while three fingers wrap around himself, bent at the knuckle rather than pressing into his palm. Only three, because that is how many fit. Rather than moving his whole hand, as Javert does, he jerks himself with quick flicks of his wrist with a stifled groan.

“Just that?” Javert asks.

“S-sometimes I prefer more, ah, rubbing,” Valjean answers hesitantly. “Not now, when I am so close.”

“You are close?”

Valjean bites his lower lip and nods.

“May I?” Javert asks, reaching out to hover his hand near Valjean’s small cock. “I want to finish you, see your spend all over your perfect thighs.”

Valjean nods again, releasing himself so Javert may try his hand. It is more difficult facing him, Javert finds, to find a satisfactory hold on him. His cock is hot under his fingers, a drop of clear fluid making its way from the tip. Javert is captivated, smoothing it across the spongy head of Valjean’s cock with a slow swipe of his thumb. Valjean makes a quiet moan.

“Like that?” Javert asks. “Is it good?”

“Oh, yes, my Javert,” Valjean breathes. “Please, more, if you can.”

Javert dedicates himself to the task, learning quickly that Valjean does not like it when he squeezes as hard as he himself likes, but that a light, quick touch is the key to unlocking Valjean’s soft moans. He jerks his hips every so often, thighs under Javert’s own flexing with the effort, and Javert is so close himself he nearly expects to finish before Valjean does if he suffers another accidental touch.

“Oh, Javert, Javert, Javert...” Valjean whines quietly, his wide, warm hands holding tight to Javert’s hips.

“You are perfection,” Javert mutters, enraptured by the expression crossing Valjean’s face. He cannot look away. “So strong, so soft, so good—”

Valjean barely squeezes Javert’s hips in warning before he spends himself, his balls drawing up and his little cock spurting seed over Javert’s hand and his own skin. His head falls back, his lips open in a perfect circle letting out a quiet moan the likes of which Javert has never imagined. It sends a sharp tingle of delight though him that he feels all the way to his toes. To hear it and to know that he is the cause of Valjean’s pleasure is nearly enough to send him over the edge.

“Perfect,” Javert mutters, carefully milking Valjean’s cock dry of every drop, to make certain Valjean experiences this pleasure for as long as possible.

“My dear,” Valjean manages to say in a rough, dazed voice. “Javert, oh, that was... so wonderful. Quite divine.”

“Good,” Javert replies, perhaps with a hint of smugness, before kissing him soundly. Valjean is not recovered in the least, barely able to do anything but hum in content and open his mouth when Javert asks it of him with a careful prod of his tongue. Submitting himself to Javert, placing full trust in him to make him feel good. It has Javert’s hips jerking without him realizing he has intention to do so, cock sliding against the soft skin of Valjean’s thighs.

It is enough to make him break the kiss in order to swear, the knowledge and the sensation twining together as one.

“Yes,” Valjean says. “You wanted this, yes?”

“God, yes,” Javert answers in a groan.

Valjean smiles, fond and tired and perfect, and Javert really is terribly in love with him.

Most of Valjean’s spend had been caught in the white thatch of hair framing his cock, but a fair amount had exceeded that distance to land on his bare skin. Javert’s cock is achingly hard, more than he can ever remember it feeling before, and it is glorious. The head of it is flushed dark and red, a sharp contrast to the pale skin of Valjean’s thighs and the white of his seed. He groans helplessly at the sight, taking a moment to stare before smearing Valjean’s spend over his skin with the head of his cock. He swears again.

“I do hope you will allow me to touch you,” Valjean says. A quick glance tells Javert that Valjean is also looking down at the scene Javert has created. “I would dearly love to show you the pleasure you have shown me.”

“If you touch me now,” Javert mutters, “I will not last.”

“Perhaps next time, then.”

Javert’s cock makes another slow pass through the spend on Valjean’s thighs, smearing it across his cock and Valjean’s skin. He nearly does not hear Valjean’s reply.

“Hm?” he hums distractedly. “Yes, next time.”

Valjean smiles. It is a long moment before Javert notices, glancing up for a brief moment to look at him in rapture.

“Oh, Javert,” Valjean says with an adoring smile. “I do love you ever so dearly.”

Javert is so overwhelmed by the love in his expression, in his voice, at being told he is loved for perhaps the first time in his life, he hardly recognizes his hips giving a few quick, uneven thrusts against the crevice of Valjean’s thighs. The physical sensation is almost an afterthought compared to how the tidal wave of emotions slams into him and he finishes over Valjean’s lap with a sound like a sob. His release takes him so hard it leaves him dizzy and gasping for breath. Valjean’s arms wrap around him to hold him close as he shudders through the aftershocks, helplessly rutting against Valjean’s leg until he can no longer stand it.

“Are you quite alright?” Valjean asks.

“I... have no idea,” Javert replies, catching his breath against Valjean’s muscled shoulder. He wraps his own arms around Valjean’s neck in a loose hold, nearly afraid to move from the safe confines of Valjean’s powerful arms. He feels unexpectedly fragile.

“You were so good,” Valjean tells him. “Truly, Javert, I had not imagined I would enjoy watching you find pleasure from my legs of all things, especially when I had previously assumed your looks were not those of appreciation, but it quite... excited me. You were enjoying yourself so much. I would certainly not be opposed to doing that again.”

“Can you tell me again?” Javert asks.

“That I enjoyed it?”

Javert shakes his head, hiding his face in Valjean’s neck. “How you feel.”

Valjean inhales a quiet _oh_.

“Did I quite forget to tell you?” he asks. “Forgive me, my dear. I suppose I was so caught up in my own emotions when you said you loved me that I forgot to tell you that I love you quite dearly as well, Javert.”

In his arms, Javert shivers. He does not know why.

“You have been a wonderful, if stubborn, friend to me,” Valjean continues. “God has truly blessed me for us to find peace together like this after so many years of hatred. I loved you as my friend, Javert, but I believe it has not been so many months since I started to love you in a different way than simple friends. It was not long after that when I decided I would very much like to kiss you or take your hand or possibly be allowed to hold you like this.” He pauses. “Do you think me a coward, Javert, for being so afraid?”

Javert shakes his head. “To live without you now is a fate worse than death. I dared not risk it, not ever, although I could not stop myself from staring.”

“I am glad you stared,” Valjean tells him. “I am glad that a simple misunderstanding could be cleared up in such a pleasing way.”

“Tell me again,” Javert asks. He nearly begs. “Please. Tell me again.”

“I love you,” Valjean says, indulging him. “I adore you.”

Again, Javert shudders.

“Javert?”

Javert takes a careful breath, hoping his voice does not shake. “I am unused to being wanted.”

“Oh, Javert,” Valjean says softly, holding him closer in his arms. “You are very much wanted. You are loved, in more way than just one. I love you as both a friend and a lover, but I am certain Cosette cares for you quite deeply as well. Little Fantine simply adores you.”

“The child is not even a year old,” Javert mutters. “What does she know of anything?

“Children have their own kind of wisdom,” Valjean tells him cryptically. “I do very much love you, Javert, and I find that I love you all the more when you feel the same about me and that we can share pleasure like this together. You are such a gift. I am blessed to have your friendship and love and forgiveness after every terrible thing we have done to each other. It makes our time together even more precious.”

Javert finds himself sniffing and realizes that he had begun to weep silently some time ago. Valjean had also wept, but Valjean was not afraid to show his vulnerability for he is strong in every way. Javert is not strong at all and he is as brittle as the dried flowers Cosette sometimes gives to her father that Javert had once accidentally ruined by walking past them too quickly. The draft he caused had broken not just one, but two of the fragile things and Javert had not known quite how to apologize for it. He does not know how to apologize for this either.

“Hush, Javert,” Valjean says softly. “It is quite alright. When you are ready, we should clean ourselves up. I know you said that you wanted to... do it yourself, and I believe I would enjoy that very much, but perhaps now is not a good time. I find I am getting quite sleepy actually and think I would like to take a short nap. I would... very much like it if you would join me, even if you wish to stay awake. In my thoughts, you have come to bed with me many times and not only for, ah, certain activities. I have frequently imagined holding you in bed, or you me, as we fall asleep together so I may wake with you as well.”

“Please,” Javert breathes, finding himself a coward and being afraid to speak louder in case his voice breaks in the middle of it. He wishes nothing more than to sleep at Valjean’s side in this moment.

“Then we shall,” Valjean says softly. He does not push Javert off his lap for a long minute, allowing Javert to get himself under some semblance of control. But Javert is surprisingly exhausted, so when Valjean pats his knees as a signal to get up he configures himself into standing once more. He cannot, however, stop himself from admiring his work on Valjean’s thighs. It is better than what he imagined.

“You are far too pleased with yourself,” Valjean tells him, a helpless smile on his lips that Javert is certain he echoes.

“But you enjoyed it, yes?”

Valjean’s cheeks turn pink and he looks down in embarrassment. “With you, Javert, how could I not?”

They walk to the kitchen, scandalously nude, and each find a cloth to wash the other. Somehow, this simple act of cleaning feels more intimate than what they just did. Valjean draws him into an easy kiss, hardly needing to ask before Javert was leaning in to meet him.

“I believe I will never tire of that,” Javert says quietly.

Valjean smiles. “Tired of what? We have only just begun.”

“Kissing you,” Javert replies, tone rough with blunt honesty. “Touching you. Everything, Jean.”

Valjean’s smile turns sweet and brilliant, a smile Javert had never imagined he would see. It takes his breath away. It speaks of love.

“And I have yet to have my turn with you,” Valjean says. “But first, I should put away my new things. And then a nap.”

“I suppose I can be upset with you for having such terrible care with your clothes now,” Javert tells him, attempting to suppress his own smile. “Really, Valjean. Whatever shall I do with you?”

“Let me have my way with you tomorrow?” Valjean asks, nothing but happiness on his face.

Javert hums, pretending to consider. “I suppose that is a worthy payment.”

Later that night, they retire to their separate rooms. Not even half an hour later, Valjean knocks on his door to slip into bed beside him. His warmth is a familiar comfort after their afternoon nap, his arms around Javert in a loose hold. Javert is asleep within minutes.


End file.
